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WARNING: This story deals
with aberrant sex practices. Some sex is
consensual, some not. I don't condone it. I'm not advocating
it. I may or may not even like it. It's simply a fantasy, a product
of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.
Before you read it, please note
the following:
* If you are under
eighteen, do not read this story!
* If you have a hard
time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!
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An Erotic Horror Story
By
Hunsi
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Chapter I: The Mobutu Office Complex,
"... And you, Caitlyn, have
you an opinion on the matter?” Okar Mbanefo, her employer, tried in vein to solicit a response
from his young office assistance regarding the change in office policy.
Of course, just as Okar had expected, she hadn’t a reply. The truth is, she seldom did whether in
agreement of not. It simply wasn’t within the soft-spoken Irish import and
mother of one to do other than remain a shadowy silhouette in the background
and conform to the opinions of others.
"Well, okay then, we'll leave
it there and get back to work," her boss, Mr. Mbanefo,
said as he brought the office meeting to a close.
After closing his briefing book,
he leaned back in his chair for a moment and watched as young Caitlyn Flynn
gathered up her things. The
The truth be told, there wasn't an once of Pluck to be found in the mousy little Irish
red-head. Once more, given her
unassuming, almost child-like disposition, it wasn't hard to tell why Okar would be so quick to come to the defense of his
bright, though thoroughly ineffectual office assistance whether she sought it
out or not.
"Ms Flynn, have you a
moment?"
"Is there a problem, Mr. Mbanefo?" She
asked, then waited for him to refasten the shirt
buttons that had popped free when rising up out of his chair. For those who knew him,
having to wait for him to gather himself up before speaking was just a matter
of course.
A rotund, hulk of a man, Okar Mbanefo was nothing less
than a 6 foot 4 black bowling ball on legs.
His largeness being such that even the double XL slacks, white shirt and
tie looked boyishly diminutive wrapped around his torso.
He was an imposing figure too be
sure. Though by measure, he wasn’t all
that dissimilar from the rest of the black male populous, a majority of whom were far more robust than their European counterparts.
They had significantly larger
libidos as well, something that our meek and retiring young Irish import had to
learn to accommodate. As did her son,
Aden, that is, if he wished to make anything of himself in Botswana- a black
rule country and indisputably one of the most unyielding, especially when it
came to the status of whites. A group
they saw as an inferior, half-baked, that like the family pet,
need be kept fenced in, not left to wander, least they be consumed by the wild
animals.
"No, no
problem, Caitlyn,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that resonated throughout
the room.
“It’s just that you look as if you've much on your mind."
"Yes, Sir." she replied,
with a voice that tailed off into a whisper.
"Young Aden is it?" he
asked, and she, to wit, acknowledged with a nod.
"Let me guess. It has something to do with his upcoming
change of schools.
And why not? At his core,
Mr. Mbanefo had a good heart. Plus, he was a deftly perceptive man, and in
this case, his thumbnail analysis of what was worrying her couldn't have been
more on the mark.
Initially, the difficulties
inherent in making the transition between the two radically different cultures
seemed a bridge too far for her to cross.
For her, it was having to adjust to the
cultural bias in a male-centric workplace.
For her son, it was the difficulties inherent in going from the
traditional Irish prep-school to the Baptiste du Pre Academy where the pod system was employed.
Clearly, that was the kind of
change that should have put the kibosh on her accepting Pan-Africana
Enterprises offer to join them right from the start. And if not for the money, and the much needed
multicultural work experience the job offered, she most certainly would have
thought long and hard before putting so much upon her son.
But, for whatever reason she
didn’t, and indeed,
Though fortunately, nothing is
truly fixed in place for the young, and given their natural malleability,
adjustments and accommodations do come about.
Some quickly, some not, and in
To say she was surprised to find
at home the following day all smiles would gave putting it lightly. In truth, she had visions of far worse, as in
tears and rage once he learned that teaching cultural diversity wasn’t exactly
high on the agenda at
In fact, it was very high on the
agenda, with each class beginning with the reading from a book of Baptiste du Pre’s
writings that preached the superiority of the Negroid race in both governing
and in social structure.
Caitlyn knew that before hand, of
course, and when asked, she was quick to tell all concerned that she agreed
with the concept wholeheartedly. After
all, in Africa, in a black rule country, the majority believe black rule has
been long in coming, and wanted their sons be to taught that it is theirs to
rule the roost, and for whites to serve them.
Now, there’s one to digest, and
making the swallow all the more difficult was the small matter of the uniform
he was required to wear. Called the podboy whites, the white shorts and top were nothing less
than a visual mark of their separation, and meant to be that way. Just as the smart combat Khaki’s fatigues,
boots and beret worn by the native Botswana boys were meant to mark their
separation from the crowd as well. Only
contrary to the message sent by the skimpy whites the podboys
were made to wear, the message they conveyed was one of one of dominance, power
& control.
At the very least, having to wear
those pod whites was enough to make any red-blooded Irish boy's heart to go
arrhythmic. But again,
not so her son. He didn't even
seem to mind at all having to wash his whites nightly in the sink by hand, then
hang them up to dry alongside his mother’s delicates as detailed in the written
instructions he brought home for her to read that very first night.
Of course, she found the whole
separate and unequal treatment of the boys discomforting to say the
least. But as
A question that even now she found
herself puzzling over as her boss, Okar Mbanefo, was trying as he might to be of help to her.
“Ah, yes, I thought so. Your thoughts are an array of concern
regarding your son, Aden,” Mr. Mbanefo's voice cut
through her thoughts, lifting her out of her malaise. "New school, new pod, bigger boys and
all the more expected of him. All going
to give you reason enough to worry I suppose. "
"Yes sir," she nodded.
"Well, if it helps I think
you're concerns are a bit misplaced.
From what I've heard he's doing quite well with his mates thus far. He's a real pleaser I’m told, and all the
boys love him.”
“Yes, Sir, I know, sir, but if
you’ll pardon me, sometimes it all just seems so, so . . . oh, I don’t know,
she said, to voice tailing off, faint as a whisper.
“Please sir, I rather not say,”
she then dare venture.”
“Hum, well than, allow me to
guess. Given the flush on your face, I
think it safe to say it has something to do with all the touchy-feely you see
going on between them, correct, Caitlyn?”
“It’s certainly a big step away
from all that punching and fighting and rough necking you see going on in those
competitive battlegrounds you westerners call a learning institution.”
“Yes, sir, that is true. I’ve not seen a lot of hooliganism loitering the streets.
But then too, it all just seems so, so . . .” she said, letting it
linger.
“So, so, What?”
he prodded. “So
contrary? So
different? Or, perhaps it is
simply his separate but unequal treatment in class,” he said, wanting to put the
unspoken out there.
“The pod whites, no desk of his
own, having to sit on the lap of another to do his
studies while the boy whose crotch his rump is burrowed studies the differenced
between the cultures. All of which is
innocent enough, but I can see how that might well call into question matters
of sexual nature. If so, then I am here
to assure you, you are mistaken.”
On that, our meek and
self-effacing young Irish import steeled herself to
look up into his eyes. Something that
for a woman in the Botswana workplace was simply unheard of, much less
tolerated.
“Madam, please!” he said, sternly,
his eyes furrowed down deep. “I can
absolutely assure you, there are no homosexuals in his school! None!
Homosexuality is a deviate abnormality, an affliction found only in
white culture, in white boys alone!!”
“What you are seeing, and
obviously misinterpreting, is his pod-mates efforts to bridge the racial
disparities, and to impart in him the skills he’ll need to serve his future
employers. Primarily openness and
resilience, just the kind of qualities employers are looking for in their white
boy hires.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t mean sound so ungrateful. I just want the best for him.”
“I know, and I do understand your
worry, Caitlyn. New school, bigger, more
assertive boys, I know it will take some time to adjust to, no question
there. But on the other hand, think of
it as a savings. No longer do you need
worry about patching him back up when he comes home all black-and-blue from the
bullying. They’re going to be treating
your Aden boy quite kindly, and much to his liking, their going to be giving
him every bit of what they have to give.”
“Thank goodness for small favors,
huh, Ms. Flynn,” he chuckled as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Now, come-come, wipe the frown of your face
and give me a big smile.”
“That’s my girl,” he cheerfully
embraced her feeble attempt to look pleased.
“Just remember, Caitlyn, nothing hurts more than not having a mother’s
full support, and reassurance when he comes home tired and worn, and quite
frankly, all fagged out!”
Chap 2
Caitlyn Flynn’s residence was
located on a hillside street just a short 5 minute cab ride from the Mobutu
Office Complex where she worked. It was
just a small 2 bedroom home, but what it lacked in living space, it made up for
with a terrace that ran the length of the house. It was an amenity that not only provided a
place to lounge out doors, but also provided her an out-of-the-way place to sit
when
After work that day, she was
outside enjoying the late afternoon breeze when she saw Aden and Tayo Mpule hand in hand making
their way up the hillside steps and onto the terrace.
The handholding, even as
unsettling as it was to her, was just one in a number of things that kept her
awake at night. Her son was the outsider
after all, and as such would be the first to be hurt if anything went wrong.
Still in all, not all was doom and
gloom. Though slim as a twig and
malleable to a degree, she was at least comforted by the fact that her son,
Aden, was taller and older than Tayo, and thus,
making it less likely he’d suffer an unwanted advance on his person. It also helped to temper her response to the
handholding, as well as the sight of Tayo’s other
hand resting on her son’s ass when coming to a stop before her.
“Hiya, mums,” Tayo said, then beamed a smile bright as the mid-day sky
while slipping his hand inside the elastic waistband of
It was truly an assault of her
sensibilities made all the worst when he began squeezing her son’s ass as he
would a horn on a bike, and all the while showing nothing but his casual
indifference, as if it was all but a matter of course. And he made quit a show of it too, beaming
as would a cat with a mouth full of canary, and until only grudgingly pulled
out his hand when Caitlyn rose up from her chair to give her son a hug.
Which she did, and as any mother
would, she threw one arm around his waist and the other upon his bottom to draw
him in close. It was only then that she
found his backside wet, and was about to ask him about it when she heard the
rest of his pod-mates bounding up the steps.
“Hey, Mons,
sorry we be late,” said young Jimo Obasi while the other 6 of his chums nodded in unison.
“Yous,
see, after school we went to Jimo’s house for a sweet
treat. But only cuz
Aden boy said he was hungry and couldn’t wait to dig in,” he said with a smile,
while his pod mates tittered.
“Shush,” he told his mates before
continuing on with his dialogue. “Well
anyway, after he was done eating his custard pudding . . .” he stopped
mid-sentence, thrown off as he was by the eruption of giggles behind.
“Quiet, bean heads,” he again
turned to scold his chums, wanting to stop them from giving away the
store.
“Sorry, mom, but as I was saying,
once Aden-boy finished eating his treat we saw that he’d leaked some on his
pants and had to clean up the mess. Only
when he put his pants back on we saw that some of it was still leaking
out. And when Jimo’s
mom saw it she got mad. Mostly at Aden
boy, cuz she said it weren’t our fault cuz we’re boys, doing what boys are supposed to do. But with white boys things are different and
Aden-boy should of known better. Especially
when wearing his white Linen shorts, cuz they don’t
soak up much and it just drips right down onto the floor.”
“So she spanked him and wiped his
butt clean with her hankie,” he said, then concluded his detailed account of
their little escapade with a huge grin while holding up a gooey, soggy, soaked
hankie he had pulled out from his back pocket.
“Jimo’s
mom said that since it was your sloppy boy who ruined her hankie, you got to
replace it with one of your own. That
way if he’s leaking all over the place again tomorrow, it’ll be your hanky that
ends up all sticky and messy and smelly, not hers.”
Some minutes
later, after the departure of his pod-mates, not much more was said between
Caitlyn and
“Yes, mom, I like my friends and
they like me. They’re not at all like those bullies back home who just wanted
to push me around and call me names just cuz I wasn’t
muscly like them.
Here the boys like me the way I am.
And that makes me happy, and wanting to please them as much as they
please me.”
The following day . . .
Having been called into Okar Mbanefo office, Caitlyn
Flynn sat before his desk listening in on the call between himself and Theodore
Effong, the dean of Baptiste
du Pre Academy.
It was a call Okar had initiated on her behalf
to help ease any lingering fears she still might have regarding the
touchy-feely things she had seen, and feared it might be homosexual in
nature.
“Yes, Theo, I absolutely reassured
her that there no homosexuals either at Baptiste du Pre Academy, or anywhere outside those white
homo-centric societies with which she is familiar.”
“Well, that’s why I called,
Theodore. I’m not entirely certain. She sounds appeased, but hearing it from
another certainly wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yes, yes, I agree. Sending the lad over in advance might help
smooth out some of the ruffles can only help to reassure. Maybe even get it across to her that what she
is seeing isn’t homosexual at all. That
it’s simply his pod-mates chosen teaching method. A sort of
performance art if you will, a technique used to get him to hang loose
and open, with or without the amyl, yet still show the kind of tough-boy
resilience to bounce back and ask, “Please sir, can I have another!”
“What’s that? What’s the boy’s name? Samuel Akombe? Oh yes, good choice.”
“Yes, yes, Theo, just tell Samuel
the lad looks a peach. Blue eyes, curly red hair, a freckled nose, and lips as lush and
full as those of a lady that are not meant for talking.”
“Yes, I know, Theo, me
either. I can wait to saddle up. Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. Bye, Theo.”
“Well, I have some great new for
you Ms. Flynn,” he said upon hanging up the phone. “Dean Effong is
going to send over Samuel Akombe to meet with
Aden-boy to help settle him before school starts. Samuel is the designate top of the Black
Panthers pod. He's smart, the best
Striker in the league, and a real come-to-life statue of David who could charm
a father-confessor into spreading his cheeks.
You can’t do better than that!”
The next morning, Caitlyn rose
early to make potato cakes for Aden's breakfast. He simply loved them, and being that it was a
Saturday morning, she thought to top off the treat by allowing him to sleep
in. Walking into the kitchen, she opened
the upper half of the Dutch-Door, then took a moment to lean out and breathe in
the crisp cool morning breeze before turning back to put on her apron and
gather the ingredients to make the morning meal.
It was at that moment she heard a
tapping upon the door. Turning around,
she saw the most strikingly beautiful boy leaning in through the open Dutch
door window. In his hand a Sunflower
bouquet, and rising from his lips, the words of a poet.
“My flower she blossom purest
white,
She mark’d
with eye that beam’d delight,
its leaves she kiss’d, and
straight it drew,
from beauty’s lip the vennil
hue.”
Yeats, W. B.,
& Finneran, R. J. (1989). The collected poems of W.B. Yeats.
New York: Collier Books.
Caitlyn stood breathless,
spellbound, disbelieving her ears. And
all this coming from a boy, black as obsidian,
but with a face of a man fit to grace the Hollywood screen. An idyllic face that topped a sleek, angular
frame that called to mind the image of a Kalahari Bushmen running through the
grasslands with spear in hand hunting down his prey.
“Oh my, that was spoken so
eloquently.” Where in the world did you
. . .”
“. . . Where did I learn that?”
the boy finished the thought for her. “At school, moms,
“Oh my,” she swoons. Did you say you were from the Academy? You’re Samuel Akombe?”
“Yes, Madam, and my expressed the
heartfelt sentiments were for you, but I’m afraid the Sunflowers are for Aden
boy.”
“Those are for Aden? Flowers?” She asked pointedly.
“Yes, Mom, but as you can see,
they are flowers in need of a vase. Have
you one to spare, Madam? Something
pretty she might like to place them upon the sill.”
“She?” Caitlyn again queried while retrieving a vase from the
cupboard. “Pardon, Mum, it’s just poetic license. ‘My flower she blossoms.’ Understand?
“Now, if you might direct me to
where I might find ‘her’?”
“Aden?”
“Yes, of course, my lovely sweet
Irish blossom.” Caitlyn hadn’t the words
to respond. His words and the
sentiments they expressed brought into the open all she had forever feared to
face. It ran so counter to the role of a
man and that of a woman as she knew them to be, that even now she found it
impossible to come to terms with her feelings.
Save one! No matter what
compelled Aden to seek out the affections of boys, she’d always be there for
him no matter what.
Then too, there was Samuel. That beautiful, magnificently sculpted
man-boy who had the world laid out for his taking. That would include her son, and by the sound
of her throbbing heart, herself as well.
Not by the self-absorbed boy she saw with flowers in hand, but by he man
she saw in him. The hunter, the
provider, the heartthrob, the essence of masculinity that stirred her loins and
left her breathless and quite frankly, of a mind to do whatever he asked just
to sate her need for his closeness.
“It’s Saturday, he’s sleeping in.”
“Beauty sleeps, huh, moms? Well, come mum; it’s time our blossom opens
up to greet the morning sun, and for you to make the introduction,” he said, taking
it upon himself to enter the house while Caitlyn removed her apron. Then with Samuel following, she tip-toed her
way down the hall until reaching his door.
“Is this it, Moms?” He asked as he raised his nose to sniff the
air. “Ah, yes,” he inhaled, “I can smell
‘the blossom purest white, snug in her bed, ’mark’d
with eye that beam’d delight...”
Then as he reached for the knob,
Caitlyn thought to back away, but was stopped in her tracks before her escape
his reach. “No, no, Moms you need come
in,” he smiled, near salivating over the strange brew he was concocting. “She needs her mom at a time like this. The comfort of her mums hand can only help to
encourage our blossom to open up to the fullest.”
A minute more and we find Caitlyn
sitting upon Aden’s bed running her fingers through his hair to quietly awaken
her son. While Samuel, quick to the
trigger, was shucking off his clothes just a step inside the door.
“Morning, mama,” Aden stretched,
slowing awaking to her smile.
“Morning, my
sweet.
It’s time to awaken as someone has come to visit,” she followed, looking
back over her shoulder at Samuel, standing there holding out the sunflowers
while his fully engorged 9 inch cock heavily bobbed and weaved a gravity
defying 30 degrees to the vertical.
“This is Samuel Akombe. He’s come to meet you,”
“Actually, that would be Samuel Mathieu Akombe, moms,” he followed wanting it known. “Mathieu is my father’s name, and I’m the
designate Top of the Black Panther pod, the pod that you, Aden, have been
assigned to for your 4 year stint at Baptiste du Pre Academy.”
“We’re going to pick up where them li’l peckers in junior school
left off. Teach you the skills a boy
need know to service his future Mbanderu and Mangwato employers.
Primarily openness and resilence, just the
kind of qualities employers are looking for in their white boy hires.”
“But first, I thought it only
right that we should meet,” he said, while eyeing Aden hungrily, wolfishly, as
he walked around the bed to sit opposite moms – the flowers and his long, pound
heavy bloated black snake leading the way.
What followed was a scene plucked
right from the pages of ‘The Baron and his Maid.’ Starting from the moment he handed Aden-boy
his flower bouquet then have him turn around, head down, ass up, with cheeks
spread for the benefit of his mother.
“See moms, this isn’t her first
time, and her eagerness shows.” To wit,
Caitlyn, caught in his orbit and without the means to escape the gravitational
pull, sat breathless, wordless, and wracked by a tremulous array of
emotions. And nowhere was there room in
her head to question the right and wrong of all this. Not even when Samuel cradled Aden’s face in
his hands and pressed his lips to Aden’s, leaving her son breathless, gasping,
left to persevere on passion alone.
With Aden’s face still clutched
between his hands, Samuel looked back over his shoulder towards moms, his long,
bloated cock sliding back and forth along the top of her son’s ass.
“Oh, yes, moms, Aden-boy is plenty
eager. Now, if you would kindly spit on
my tool and rub it in good, then just line me up I’ll
do my best to fill her desire.
Which she did in, languishing in
her turbid state, while Samuel, pushed in and began pumping like an oil rig
rocker while Aden’s huffing, smothering voice could be heard above the
mix. “Now watch, moms, you’ll see, I’ll show’ya.”
“No hands, and your lil’
bitch is going to cum just like you!”
----
Book II
Aden Boy’s First Day at School
Learning his place . . .
Aden could scarcely contain his
excitement on the day classes were to start at Baptiste
du Pre Academy.
The place where he was to be given the opportunity to study under the
finest professors and be among the most gifted students in all of Botswana.
It was theirs to study Chemistry,
and Physics, and the highest order of mathematics, while it was Aden’s to be
taught the skills he’ll need to serve his future employers. That’s to say, with openness and resilience,
just the kind of qualities employers are looking for in their white boy hires.”
Or, so said Theodore Effong, the dean of
The tailor, a very fastidious man,
was running though a last minute checklist to insure the best of all fits, when
Aden boy braved to speak up.
“Sir, Dean Effong,
is this my uniform?”
“Of course, look at the black
power fist on your singlet. That stamp
is there to inform one and all who this property belongs to, and they best keep
them ‘nigga’ hands off if they wish to stay
healthy.”
“Yes, Sir, I know, sir. It’s just like the one I saw posted on their
Pod Room door,” he replied with a searching, undecided look, as if unsure about
how he should feel about his newly tailored podboy
whites.
Dean Effron
could sense that uncertainty in the sound of his voice and could see signs of
his angst written upon his scrunched up face.
So in effort to reassure him that the spaghetti-strap singlet he wore
was indeed, becoming, he told him how sharp he looked.
“A real trooper you looked there,
boy,” he beamed, while pointing at the black power fisted salute that stood out
like an exclamation point that followed the ‘Tender White Chicken’
script that preceded it!
“Yes, boy, a real trooper you look. Bright, chipped and ready to engage the
curriculum to learn what your future employers are looking for in their white
boys hires.”
Then with a wink and a smiling playful
punch to his jaw, he again turned to the tailor. “Now, my good man, if you are done, I think it’s
time we are off.”
“Yes, sir,” ready the boy be,” he said as he rose up off his knees while pressing of
tube of boy butter into the palm of
“Right then, off we go to start
your first day at student at
“Yes, sir, he beamed, and in less
time than it took to muster himself, Dean Effong was
escorting him down the center aisle of the Pod Dorm like a father would
escorting his daughter down the chapel aisle.
And with Dean Effong dress in his black
administrative robe, and
Passing Pod room after pod room
that house the Congolese Black Mambas, the Nigerian Devils, the Kenyan Bushmen
and the Solmali Ball Busters, just to name a few of
the rooms they past, and until at last they reached the Black Panthers pod,
where he was to hook up with the boys who were going to teach him the true
meaning of ‘openness and resilience,’ the qualities employers are
looking for in their white boy hires.
“Just you remember, boy, openness
and resilience” Dean Effong said to him as the door
open to a pack of wildly excited boys, and fronting them was none other than
Samuel Akombe, the boy, the man, the pillager who
knew his Yeats.
“Give me a moment, Samuel,” Dean Effong said to him, though in truth, he might as well have
been speaking to Samual’s pound heavy cock of his
that was bobbing and weaving a gravity defying 30 degrees to the vertical.
“Now, don’t you forget, boy,” he
again turned back to say, “Openness & resilience, or as you Europeans like to
say, you take a licking, you keep on ticking.”
“That’s what you’re here to learn,
and that’s what your future employers will expect of you. Whether slinging you ass in a bar, or tending
to room service in a flop house. They’ll
counting on you, like they do all white boys, to serve, smile and say thank
you, Sir, no matter the pounding, and then jump back up and be quick off to
greet the gent in the room across the way to add his lot to your pot. You understand me boy?”
“Yes, Sir,” he replied with a
smile, showing not a hint of indecision.
So, there you have it, my dear
readers, and I best not hear even a tint of accusal
in your voice. The truth is, there is no victim here. It’s simply in Aden’s nature to
do whatever he must to once again be held in Samuel Akombe’s
embrace. No matter the hurdles, no
matter how bright his red smudged lips, it was a place he wanted to be, needed
to be, to make himself feel whole!
“Good, boy,” Dean Effong uttered, “Very good!,” he followed, smiling warmly
as Samuel pulled him into what was, for all practical appearances, a moshpit full of boned up excitable boys. Then, standing back, he watched Samuel spin
his magic to win the boy over with his irresistible mix of masculine beauty and
all consuming power. The power to bring
on the sweet torture that boys like Alex would’ve walked over a hot bed of
coals just to offer their ass up to him.
So as the sun set over Botswana,
we leave Aden, rolling along with the wave after wave of spent cum while
mouthing distance utterances and looking off into the void, seemingly lost in a
dream . . .
Das Ende
Hunsi
“Sorry
folks, but the gay crowd out there are due their share
of enjoyment as well, do they not? I’m not sure if I’ve met the goal, but at
least
I gave it the good old boy try.”
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